July 08, 2004
Fiction
Repeat Performance
“Are we taping?” she asked, pulling down the sheets of the bed and crawling on top of it, naked.
Oh my, I thought, running my eyes up and down her tanned skin. My gaze raced back up her long legs and ended in the triangle of her pubic hair. I had to force my eyes away from nearly-hidden pink stripe of her labia as I continued my tour up her body. I continued up to her tight stomach with the oval mole, her small (“too small,” she’d say; “just right,” I’d say) breasts with their stiffening nipples. Then I took in her big hazel eyes and ached to touch her long brown hair spread out in a fan on my pillow.
Oh. Right. The camera.
I turned away from Christine, spread out on my bed like a centerfold, and in the process knocked the side of my hard penis against the dresser. I’d forgotten that I was naked too. Well, almost forgotten — it’s physically impossible for a guy to truly forget he’s naked. I gave her a sheepish smile as I positioned the camera and punched “Record.” The red light flickered on.
“We’re taping,” I mouthed to her off-camera, grinning like a kid.
Holding my breath, I crawled onto the bed and found myself at her left breast, trying not to think about the camera behind me as I licked and nibbled. I tasted the tiniest bit of salt on her nipple, my tongue circling the light brown aureole surrounding it like a tiny bulls-eye. Her hand touched my head as she moaned.
“You first,” she whispered, rolling away from me and positioning me on my back. With a glance at the camera her eyes narrowed the tiniest bit, and then she kissed the top of my penis.
Oh my. Oh my. I stared at the cascade of Christine’s curly brown hair as her head slowly rose and fell with me in her mouth, and I bit down the moans that wanted to escape my own mouth. I didn’t want to look like an idiot on tape, but good God this felt like heaven. Somehow she knew just where to tease and tickle me with her tongue, right at the tip where I was most sensitive, but she did it in such a way that after a few seconds I wanted to scream for more. At that point, as if she were psychic, she’d take me in her mouth and suck. And the whole process would start all over again. I could tell my eyes were rolling back in my head, and I knew I was grinning like a fool.
My girlfriend of just over six months, the girl I’d met in a smoky bar after three beers and about thirty eardrum-bruising dance songs, peeked up at me, her long hair in her face, and smiled.
“You like that?” she whispered.
“Um-hmmm,” I said in a broken voice.
“Good,” she said, turning to wink at the camera. Then she wrapped her lips around me again. Her head bobbed up and down faster, and in less than thirty seconds — too fast, too soon! — I came. I was only able to bite down a scream by balling up the bedsheets in my hands and thinking about baseball.
“Glad you liked that,” Christine said, moving next to me, the touch of her skin on mine almost painful after my orgasm. She kissed me and I could taste myself in her mouth. I was shaking, and I wanted to turn off that damn video camera and hold her in my arms as I drifted off to a blissful sleep.
“My turn now,” she said, turning so she was facing the camera. She reached under the pillow for the condom she’d stashed there earlier and began tearing at the wrapper. Her breasts poked up as she stuck out her belly the slightest bit, like a little kid concentrating on a difficult task. I was still in shock; she’d never given me a blow job before. Then she was next to me again, rubbing her pubic hair against me. I could feel her moisture down there, against my hip and thigh.
“Feel up to it?” she whispered in my ear.
Without waiting for an answer, she ran a hand down for the limp length of my penis. Pushing against me with her pelvis, she rubbed her nipples against my chest and gave me a long, salty kiss. He tongue slid across my teeth, and her hand slid down my miraculously recovering penis and she rested her long fingers on my scrotum. She gave it a squeeze, and just like that, I was hard.
Working fast now, her face a model of concentration and deviousness, Christine rolled the condom she had hidden in her other hand down my penis and then slid herself on top of it. She was wet, dropping down onto me with perfect friction.
As she rocked up and down, she kept her gaze on me. I didn’t dare look away. How in God’s name had I gotten so lucky?
My right hand slid up the smooth skin of her stomach, creeping up onto her breast, while my left slid through her pubic hair to find the moist softness it hid. I wanted her to come the way she’d made me come, and I did my bumbling best to find her clitoris and massage it. I always felt too rough, too impatient, every time I touched her there, but that day in front of the camera, judging from the quickening moans of Christine rocking up and down on top of me, I was doing something right.
And then, after barely five minutes of the most intense afternoon of my life, a tiny throbbing touched the base of my penis, and I suddenly had to focus to stay hard. Looking up at my girlfriend’s lithe, naked body working on top of me, her bottom lip caught in her top teeth as the sighed softly in a faster and faster tempo, keeping it up should’ve been an easy task. But I felt spent after Christine’s unbelievable blowjob.
Then I remembered: the camera! If we were going to watch this tape again, I really didn’t want to see some half-assed attempt at what could have been the steamiest sex ever.
Make it good, champ, I told myself as Christine began to rock faster.
“Oh God!” I moaned. “Oh yeah, baby.”
Christine’s breast slid from my hand as she arched her back. Her stomach drew in tight, and her chest was nearly parallel with the ceiling. I put both hands on her bottom and squeezed, closing my eyes and focusing all my energies on coming again. The whole time I was moaning and groaning, trying to keep pace with Christine. I could tell that I had about thirty seconds to get caught up. When her moans turned to high-pitched gasps, I knew it was hopeless for me to be a repeat performer.
So I decided to fake it.
“Oh God,” I moaned. “Oh, Christine!”
Rocking my hips up and down, pushing my barely-hard penis into her as fast as possible without slipping out and revealing myself as an imposter.
And then it was done. Christine gasped out my name, held perfectly still for a long moment as her hands tightened into fists. She was still leaning back when I moaned louder and thrust three, four, five times, almost shouting as if in unbearable ecstasy, and then I fell back onto the bed as if spent. Christine quivered once, and then fell forward on top of me with a dazed smile.
Now to cover my fakery. Get rid of the evidence.
I slid my hand down between us, and with my fingers holding the top of the condom, I slid easily out of her. Trying to be as discreet as possible — I frigging hated wearing the things — I peeled the condom off my soft penis. The slick rubbery material stuck to both my fingers and my dry, reddened penis.
At the worst possible time, Christine gave a final satisfied groan and slid next to me on the bed. She took a look at the wrinkled condom in my hand.
“Did you—” she began. Her voice was a perfect mix of awe and doubt. “Twice? You’re amazing.”
“Um,” I said. “Uh,” I added.
I rolled to the side of the bed and tried to toss the condom onto the floor, but she was too quick. She caught me. With her breasts pressing into my back, Christine turned my hand over to look at the condom. Then she rolled me over onto my back.
“Sweetie,” she said, looking at my pristine, shriveled penis. Usually I was slick with goo after sliding off a used condom. “Did you fake it?”
“Um . . . uh,” I tried again. What else could I say? I was busted.
Her mouth hung open. I’d known Christine for over half a year, and we’d been having sex for more than half of those months, but this was a new twist. What would she say? How would she react? Was this it, already?
“You know,” she said at last, touching my worn-out pecker, “you didn’t have to do that, buster.”
She bent closer and kissed me. On the forehead. My heart dropped.
I am such a frigging idiot, I thought.
Then she wrapped her arms around me and kissed me hard on the lips. When we came up for air, she said, “But I love you, you big goof.”
“I just thought that you’d, well . . .” I searched for the best way to explain this to her.
“Hush,” she said. “Just do me a favor, okay? Two favors, actually.”
“Sure,” I said, kissing her nose, cheeks, ears, and mouth. “Anything.”
“First, don’t ever fake anything with me again. And second,” she said, lightly pinching the tip of my soft penis, hard enough to sting, “turn off that damn video camera.”
short story collection Gunning for the Buddha comes out from Prime Books in September of this year, and his stories have been published in Asimov’s, Interzone, Gothic.net, Writers of the Future, Strange Horizons, The Raleigh News & Observer, and other fine venues. Right now he’s working on a non-erotic novel about, of all things, baseball. He lives with his lovely wife Elizabeth in Raleigh, NC, and they don’t have a video camera. Yet. http://www.michaeljasper.net/
